


Bedazzled, DWP Style

by DuWinter



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:14:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21689701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DuWinter/pseuds/DuWinter
Summary: Andy spends an interesting afternoon with the Devil
Relationships: Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs
Comments: 23
Kudos: 297





	Bedazzled, DWP Style

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The novel _The Devil Wears Prada_ (2003) was written by Lauren Weisberger and published by Broadway Books. The Film, made in 2006, was directed by David Frankel and produced by Wendy Finerman and Keren Rosenfelt. Ms. Weisberger's novel was adapted for the screen by Aline Brosh MeKenna. It starred our two favorite ladies, Meryl Streep and Anne Hathaway.
> 
>  _Bedazzled_ (the 1967 film version) was written by Peter Cook and Dudley Moore (both of who also starred in the film) and was directed and produced by Stanley Donen.
> 
>  _Bedazzled_ (the 2000 film version) is a remake of the 1967 version. The remake screenplay was written by Larry Gelbart, Harold Ramis and Peter Tolan. The film was directed by Harold Ramis and produced by Harold Ramis and Trevor Albert. It starred Brendan Fraser and Elizabeth Hurley.
> 
>  _I of Newton_ (Second Segment of Episode 12 of Season 1 of the 1985/86 version of the television series, The Twilight Zone) original aired on television on December 13th, 1985. It was written by Joe Haldeman and directed by Kenneth Gilbert. (If you find yourself with a spare nine minutes, I find this a very humorous piece of television and it is available on YouTube.)
> 
>  _The Devil Wears Prada_ and it's characters, neither version of _Bedazzeled_ and their characters, nor _I of Newton_ and it's characters do not belong to me. This spoof on the above materials is written strictly for the purpose of the enjoyment of The Devil Wears Prada's fan fiction audience. I freely admit to both co-opting and paraphrasing dialog from the films. I do so because I enjoyed them so much and believe my audience will likewise enjoy the witty banter. I'm just playing with the characters for a short while and I promise to put them away neatly when I'm through. No money being made here. Please don't sue, you'd be very disappointed when you found out I don't own anything worth taking.
> 
> Credit where credit is due: to associatedbears, who kindly volunteered to help and then who real life interfered with. You remain both a good friend and a star in my book! Also very special thanks to my wonderful Beta jazwriter. I appreciate your stepping up at the last minute and both your patience and valuable assistance. It is because of people with your heart and spirit that I someday might be a better writer.
> 
> Very Special Thanks To: the Beta Goddess extrodinare jazwriter and to akasarahsmom for the read-through and advice. This story has been tweaked since the last beta read-through so any and all mistakes are strictly my own.
> 
> Author's Note: This story was originally posted to my Live Journal page (DuWinter's Muse) on July 17th, 2013
> 
> Comments: Comments feed the muse and the Muse is always hungry. Remember, a fat muse is a happy and productive muse. Comments and constructive criticism eagerly encouraged.

The cell phone makes a satisfying splash as it hits the surface of the Palace de la Concorde fountain. Andy Sachs pauses only long enough to watch it sink out of sight before continuing to stride angrily away from the steps of the Hotel de Crillon and into the early Parisian afternoon.

She did it! She walked out on her job at _Runway_ during Paris Fashion Week! She is free. No more of having the impossible demanded of her on a daily basis and being expected to succeed no matter what difficulties she encountered. No more insults about her body's healthy weight and feminine curves just because she is not one of those stick-thin, sickly size zero models that every other clacker at _Runway_ aspires to be. No more condescension about her learning curve concerning fashion, as if she should simply be able to intuit what is or is not stylish at any particular moment in time.  
  
 _I am not like Miranda Priestly!_ she thinks desperately to herself as she hurries her steps, half-afraid that Miranda might send someone after her to drag her back just so she can fire her. Miranda won't let anyone walk out on _Runway_. Oh no, she'll want to have the last word before having Andy thrown down the hotel steps and blacklisting her in every field Andy has ever dreamed of working in, including becoming a ballerina, a dream which Andy gave up at the ripe old age of eleven.  
  
In the car Miranda said she saw a great deal of herself in Andy. Andy refuses to believe that. _We share very few traits in common,_ she insists to herself. She isn't cruel or heartless like Miranda is. She cares about people. She never wanted to cheat Emily out of her place at Miranda's side in Paris. It was Miranda's decision that Andy was the one who should travel to Paris with her. Miranda said she needed her best team with her in Paris and that Emily was no longer of that illustrious circle. The only thing that saved Andy from having to be the one to tell the Brit she deposed her in favor of Andy going to Paris in her stead, was, in Andy's horrified and guilty opinion, the fortunate circumstance of Emily's being struck by a taxi as she crossed a busy New York City street. One simply cannot travel to Paris and act as Miranda's assistant during the madness of Paris Fashion Week while wearing a cast up to the hip.  
  
 _Miranda doesn't even recognize or appreciate simple human kindness,_ Andy stews as she continued to walk. When Andy found Miranda alone in the Fashion Icon's hotel room, obviously distraught after being notified that her husband had filed for divorce and fearful of the news the media circus would create, not to mention the negative effects her beloved twin daughters would experience, Andy tried to reach out. Tried to offer care and compassion, asking if there was anything she could do. And Andy was quite clear in her mind that she would have done absolutely anything that Miranda might have asked of her. Andy is perfectly aware that she is hopelessly in love with her very married, very heterosexual, completely unobtainable boss. Andy always thought herself both straight and straight-laced. And like everything else in Andy's life since her first day working for _Runway_ , Miranda upended both of those notions and left Andy reeling from all the changes she is going through.  
  
Miranda immediately slammed closed any avenue available for Andy to show the woman how much she cares for her by callously telling the young assistant to do her job. This dismissal cut Andy deeply, and she both foolishly and self destructively struck back by drinking too much and allowing herself to be seduced by Christian Thompson. Granted that, for a short time, the dalliance was, in Andy's mind, fortuitous, since she discovered the plot to oust Miranda as editor-in-chief of _Runway_. She did her utmost that next morning to warn Miranda, but the woman had remained elusive and then refused to meet with her when Andy finally caught up with the Fashion Maven as she went into a meeting with Irv Ravitz, the CEO of Elias-Clarke Publishing and the mastermind behind the plot to de-throne the reigning queen of fashion publishing.  
  
Then the final blows came in quick tandem. Andy knew how much Nigel was counting on his move to James Holt International. The roll out of James' fashion in a multinational market would have allowed Nigel to stretch himself and grow professionally. Miranda threw him, her right hand and the closest thing she has to a friend, under the bus in order to hang on to her job. She didn't even warn him of what was coming, and Andy saw the pain in his eyes when Miranda betrayed his dreams in that room full of people by announcing that Jacqueline Follet would be taking the job. Then Miranda sat in the car on the way to the next show and expounded on how alike she and Andrea are. Something inside Andy snapped. She wasn't with Miranda because she wanted a life like Miranda's: she was with Miranda because she lost her heart to the woman. In that moment she lost all hope or care for any kind of future. That's why, when the car stopped, she turned her back and walked away without a word.  
  
***  
  
Now, hours later, she wanders the early evening streets of Paris aimlessly, her feet killing her from walking miles in the five-inch heels she'd worn as part of her fashionable ensemble for one of the last days of Fashion Week. Her mind is troubled as she replays the events of the last several days over and over again in her head. She has left _Runway_. Walked out without notice. Left Miranda stranded without an assistant during one of the most important weeks of the Fashion Icon's year. She knows that there will be repercussions. One simply doesn't do something like this to the Devil in Heels and remain unscathed, but she couldn't go back. She couldn't continue to pretend that she was happy working for Miranda as her assistant when she wanted so much more from the woman. She also doesn't have the courage to go back to the hotel and face Miranda with the ridiculous truth. The farcical truth that little nobody Andy Sachs from Cincinnati, Ohio, has fallen head over heels for the formidable Miranda Priestly. Andy can just imagine the scene if she ever garnered the nerve to tell Miranda about her feelings. When Miranda stopped laughing hysterically and has wiped the tears of mirth from the corners of her eyes, she'd have Andy forcibly removed from her presence, and then she'd have a restraining order taken out. Andy wouldn't be allowed to come within ten miles of Miranda under threat of being arrested for stalking. Once she'd been arrested, Miranda would see to it that there was a change of venue for the trial, and after being convicted, Andy would end up doing hard time in some third world hellhole of a prison.  
  
As she passes an outdoor cafe, an unfamiliar woman's voice calls out, “Andy!” to her from one of the sidewalk tables. The accent marks the speaker as an American, and Andy turns her head, her eyes searching the seated people scattered among the many tables. Most of the occupied tables contain either couples or groups of people, none of whom are paying any attention to her. Then she sees a beautiful and vaguely familiar-looking woman sitting alone and smiling widely at her over the rim of a cup of cappuccino. The woman's eyes sparkle with mischief, and Andy feels drawn to walk over and respond to the called-out greeting.  
  
Standing beside the table, Andy cocks her head. “I beg your pardon,” she says. "Have we met?”  
  
The woman grins a wicked, knowing grin. “We've never been formally introduced,” she answers. “May I call you Andy? For I simply know that we're to be great friends.”  
  
Andy looks at the woman, trying to place how they might have come into contact and how the woman knows her. Looking at the beautiful woman's fashionable attire, she immediately deduces that the woman's seeming familiarity must stem from some acquaintance associated with her tenure at _Runway_. She has encountered many faces each day. Perhaps she and this mysterious woman had crossed paths at one of the innumerable photo shoots she had attended as Miranda's assistant.  
  
The woman gestures to the seat across from her. “Please, have a seat. I've already taken the liberty of ordering your favorite latte."  
  
Andy's eyes widen a bit and then narrow. “You know my favorite latte?” she asks, her instincts urging her to be on her guard.  
  
“Oh, yes, my dear,” the woman says and smiles wickedly again. “Two extra shots of espresso, skinny with foam, and a sprinkle of chocolate. One packet of no-cal sweetener. I know just oodles about you, Andy. I know how hard you work and how much you've given up. I know what's in your heart and in your soul.”  
  
“What are you? Some kind of stalker?” Andy demands, her already frayed nerves flaring in outrage.  
  
She begins to turn away, intent on walking away. She still has to figure out what to do now that she's walked out on both her job and on Miranda. She should be thinking about grabbing the first plane out of the country. Sooner or later Miranda will be looking for her, and it would be better to be a long way away when that moment arrives.  
  
“Just for argument's sake,” the woman responds hurriedly, before Andy can take more than a single step. "Let's just say for a moment I could give you your heart's desire. Let's just say I could give you...Oh...I don't know... Miranda Priestly...”  
  
Andy stops cold in her tracks and turns back to the table just in time to see a waiter arrive, delivering a steaming latte and another cup of cappuccino. “I've just quit my job at _Runway_ ,” she declares. “I've walked out on Miranda, and there's no going back from that! She'll never forgive me and will make my life a living hell if I ever even dare so much as to try to speak to her again!”  
  
The woman laughs musically. It is a rich, deep, seductive sound. “I know that you're in love with her, Andy,” she counters. “I know she inhabits your dreams at night and is the focus of your waking fantasies. I know that what was done to your co-worker today is your excuse for quitting but not the real reason you walked out. I can make it all better in an instant,” she croons softly. “All you have to do is decide what you'd be willing to part with to achieve your heart's desire.”  
  
Andy, intrigued, but more cautious than ever, carefully sits across the table from the woman. “And just how could you deliver on such an offer? Do you have something you think you can blackmail Miranda with?” she demands. “Something that will not only convince her to forgive me for walking out on her without notice during her most important week of the year, mind you, but also into entering a personal relationship with me, a person so far beneath her notice?” Andy is surprised by just how strongly she needs to find out what this other woman's leverage on Miranda is. A part of Andy's brain muses how her immediate, primal instinct is to protect Miranda's interests, even now that she has left the fashion maven behind.  
  
The woman across from her lifts her cup and sips from it, the smile on her face and the mischievous sparkle in her eyes attesting to the fact that she is enjoying this exchange. “I don't need blackmail material to do what I do, although if it was your desire to have something to hold over Miranda's head, I could certainly arrange it. And it wouldn't be faked either,” the strange woman proclaims. “ It would be material embarrassing and damaging enough for you to hold power over her for the rest of her life.”  
  
“You could just create such material out of thin air?” Andy asked incredulously, suddenly wondering if she might be dealing with an escaped mental patient.  
  
“Let's suppose that I have cataclysmic powers to give you anything you want. Anything you have ever desired,” the woman across the table calmly asserts, watching Andy from over the rim of her cappuccino cup.  
  
“Just who are you,” Andy asks nervously, “that you think you can do such things? And how do you know what you know about me?” This potentially crazy woman, knew her on sight, knows her favorite latte, and knows her deepest, darkest secret, that she is so in love with Miranda Priestly that she is almost obsessed with the woman. Andy now worries about what else this strange woman might know about her.  
  
The woman across the table smiles her mischievous, wicked smile and leans across the table, motioning for Andy to lean in so they might share a whispered confidence. When Andy complies, the woman speaks in a hushed tone. “Can you keep a secret? Not tell anybody?” she asks sotto voce.  
  
Exasperated at this increasingly bizarre conversation, Andy answers, “Of course I can,” waspishly.  
  
“Cross your heart and hope to die?” the woman quietly breathes into Andy's face.  
  
Andy nods a brusque affirmation.  
  
“I'm the Devil.” the woman whispers.  
  
Andy blinks and then, reaching across the table, picks up the woman's coffee cup, sniffing the content. It smells only of strong coffee, steamed milk, and perhaps a touch of cinnamon. “Lady,” Andy says, putting distance between them and adopting a confident pose, “You're nuts!” She carefully places the woman's cup back on it saucer. She thinks both her reply and delivery sounds incredibly calm and even, considering the circumstances.  
  
“I _AM_ the Devil!” the woman insists quietly but emphatically. “Lucifer! Beelzebub! Satan! The Prince of Darkness! ...Well...” she hesitates a brief moment. “The _Princess_ of Darkness, anyway,” she chuckles.  
  
Andy looks at her askance. “You're loony tunes is what you are.” she replies softly. She glances around the cafe. “This is one of those _Pranked_ things, isn't it?” she asks, referring to the popular television comedy show. “Did Emily put you up to this? I know she's pissed about me being the one to come to Paris, but it's not like it's my fault she got hit by a taxi and broke her leg!” She glares suspiciously at a nearby potted tree. “ Is your T.V. camera and microphone in that tree?” she demands.  
  
The woman shakes her head sadly. “You're going to make me prove who I am to you, aren't you?” she asks, resignation in her tone. She sighs and makes a sudden circular upward movement with her hand and wrist. “Let's step into my office.”  
  
In less than the blink of an eye, Andy is suddenly sitting in a luxurious office across an impressive desk from the woman. Rich curtains shield what are likely windows on two adjoining walls. A corner office, not at all like Miranda's style, but it is certainly the office of someone powerful, important, and wealthy. Andy shakes her head as if trying to clear it. “What the hell is going on!” she demands.  
  
“Funny you should mention Hell,” the woman says, picking up a small remote control and pressing a button. The curtains sweep back slowly, revealing large picture windows overlooking a fiery hellscape. “Because that's exactly what's going on out there.” She chuckles. “Welcome to the home office, Andy." She smiles across the desk. “Now let's get down to business. You want something, and I can deliver it. All you need to do is sign the contract." She moved her hand over the desk, and a Salvatore Ferragamo single gusset briefcase in a rich bright red, patent leather suddenly appears in a puff of smoke with the stench of brimstone.  
  
Andy looks confused. “That's the top bag in Ferragamo's line,” she says softly. “We did a piece on briefcases for fashionable women executives last month, but it only comes in black and camel.”  
  
“Not if Ferragamo owes his fame and success to you, it doesn't," the woman across the desk says, laughing. “He was more than happy to make me one in devil red,” she continues as she opens the case and takes out a ream of paper, dropping it in front of Andy on the desk.  
  
Andy picks up the heavy document and begins to peruse the first page. “ _I, Andrea Melissa Sachs, to be known hereafter and in the hereafter as the damned...”_ Andy reads aloud. “The damned?!” she exclaims.  
  
“Would you prefer the darned? Don't concern yourself; it's just boilerplate legal jargon,” the woman replies carelessly. “It doesn't mean anything.”  
  
Andy continues to read the first page of the thick ream of paper that makes up the contract. “ _hereby swear and affirm that I am the sole owner of my soul, and there are no liens or judgments adjudicated against it...”_ She glances up at the woman across from her. “You're serious about this...” she says incredulously.  
  
“Absolutely,” the woman answers fervently. “It's the standard contract. Paragraph one states that I, the Devil, a not-for-profit corporation with offices in Hell, Purgatory, and San Moritz, will give you seven wishes to use as you see fit.”  
  
Andy reads some more of the contract. “Why seven?” she asks. “Why not six or eight?”  
  
“It has to do with numerology and celestial alignments,” the Devil answers. “You know, mystical rules of life. Seven Days for Creation, Seven Days of the Week, Seven Deadly Sins, Seven Seas, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers...”  
  
“And for these seven wishes, you get my soul.” Andy states.  
  
The Devil nods. “Yes. I get your soul.”  
  
“What do you want with it?” Andy asks, her eyes still going over the increasingly fine print of the document in her hands.  
  
“Well as embarrassing as this is, I'm in terrible need of a competent assistant,” the Devil confesses from across the desk. “You'd be absolutely astounded at how hard it is to get good help down here, and we're about to do the whole transition to paperless thing,” she says, motioning to the contract. “It's going to be a complete nightmare.”  
  
“Hard to get good help?” Andy asks, placing the contract back on the edge of the desk. “I would have thought that getting good help wouldn't be a problem with all the lawyers everybody says you get,” she laughs nervously.  
  
The Devil looks at her archly. “All lawyers think they're God, so they make lousy assistants. And what else have I got?" She looks to the ceiling and points her finger at it. “ _She_ has a multitude of hosts. I have the Seven Deadly Sins,” she complains bitterly. “Can you imagine Greed, Sloth, or Gluttony as an assistant?” The Devil shivers in her chair. “No, I need a seasoned assistant. Someone who can take some of the day-to-day load so I can do the things I need to be doing.”  
  
“God's a woman?” Andy asks in surprise.  
  
“Everybody want to know about _Her_ ,” the Devil replies hotly, “like she's so fucking fascinating. You'd think that meeting the Devil would be enough, but noooooo,” she grouses. “Of course God's a woman!” she asserts. “Do you imagine for even a minute that a man could accomplish the creation of everything that is? And in seven days?" she continues with scorn. “Most of them can't even manage to multitask!”  
  
Andy nods absently, her eyes falling again on the contract where it lies on the desk. “So you want my soul so you can make me your assistant?” She looked around the office. “I just don't know,” she temporizes, glancing sideways at the woman across from her. “I mean it's my soul we're talking about here.”  
  
The Devil huffs. “Here I am offering you seven fabulous wishes for one piddling little soul. You can wish for anything your heart desires, and I'll deliver. I mean, think about it. What is your soul really? Have you ever seen it? What has it ever done for you? It's like your appendix. You'll never even notice it's gone. And what am I asking for here, anyway? I mean you've already survived working for Miranda during the preparation of the September mega issue of _Runway_ , so how bad could working for me be?” she asks. “What's this?” the Devil suddenly says, turning in her chair as a concealed projector casts images of a larger than life Miranda on one of the office walls. It is a moving slide show of Miranda as the world at large never has seen her. Smiling at her children during a private walk in the park. Laughing about something at a party with Nigel. Sitting broken in her plain gray bathrobe in a Parisian hotel room.  
  
Andy's eyes never leave the screen as her hand, almost of its own volition, reaches up and caresses the top page of the thick document. She swallows hard tears and licks her suddenly parched lips. “Okay,” she whispers. “Where do I sign?”  
  
The Devil quickly reaches across the desk and opens the massive contract to the final page. With her other hand she offers Andy a pen. “Initial here, here, and here, and sign here,” the Devil says, indicating the appropriate lines, each marked with its own brightly-colored, arrow-shaped Post-it ® flag.  
  
Andy looks at the places to be initialed and signed before gazing questioningly at the Devil. “Shouldn't I be signing this in my blood?” she asks, only half-joking.  
  
The Devil laughs a full and rich laugh. “You are, my dear,” she answers. “I got your blood from the Red Cross blood drive you gave blood at a month ago,” she says, motioning to the ballpoint pen in Andy's hand. “You wouldn't believe how many people have second thoughts when you ask them to prick a finger and give up a few drops of blood," she asserts, her tone exasperated. “So a few years ago, I funded an enterprising young Goth businessman and outsourced the making of pens. I supply the blood with lot numbers. He sells the extras to the Goth subculture, and the lot numbers allow me to keep track of which pen comes from which potential client.”  
  
Andy gazes at the pen in her hand. It looks like any of a hundred she's handled in her time at _Runway_. “You had this pen made in the last month?” Andy asks.  
  
The Devil nods. “You've been on my radar for a while, Andy,” she smiles. “Being as hopelessly in love with someone like Miranda Priestly as you are...Well, your position was untenable, and situations like that are of interest to me. They're just full of potential as far as collecting...assets... for my business.”  
  
Andy initials the indicated spaces and signs the contract with a nervous flourish.  
  
The deed done, the Devil smiles at Andy and sits back in her chair. “Now,” she says, “what would you like your first wish to be?”  
  
Andy thinks for a moment. “I want to be an ace reporter,” she says nervously. “One who's well-known. No! Better yet, I want to be famous!” she continues, gaining confidence as she speaks. "Someone that's made their bones in the industry and is getting well paid for the stories they write. Someone with a rich and famous lifestyle! Someone that is professionally engaged with Miranda, and someone she is aware of! Someone she has strong feelings about personally!”  
  
“Very good! In fact, excellent! ” the Devil says. “You've already got the hang of this!” She reaches into her briefcase and draws out a new Apple iPhone 5, still in the box. “Now if you get into trouble or want the present wish to be over, you just dial six-six-six on this phone, and it will bring you right back to me wherever I am,” she says, pushing the box containing the phone across the desk to Andy.  
  
“Over?” Andy asks naively.” Why would I want it to be over?”  
  
The Devil raises her arm and makes the same quick rolling hand and wrist gesture she'd made in the cafe, and the last thing Andy hears is the Devil laughingly saying, “Because nobody gets it right the first time.”  
  
***  
  
Andy is suddenly seated at a desk in the bullpen of a major metropolitan newspaper. It is located in a commanding position close to the windows overlooking the skyline. A glance outside tells Andy immediately that she is in New York City. _But at which paper?_ she wonders. Almost immediately the phone rings at the smaller desk next to her desk. The woman seated there, Amanda Kingston if the nameplate on her desk is correct, picks up the phone and answers, " _New York Post_ , Andy Sachs' desk.” She listens for a moment and smiles. “Yes? Why thank you! Ms. Sachs is always happy to hear from you about her latest column in the _Post_.” The woman listens for another moment before saying, “Yes, I'll make sure she gets the message.” Hanging up the phone she glances at Andy. “That was Anna Wintour's assistant. Ms. Wintour wanted to tell you how much she enjoyed your column this morning."  
  
“Hey, Ms. Sachs?” a young man in a private security firm uniform says as he comes to stand in front of her desk, in his arms a huge bouquet of two dozen long-stemmed roses in a shade of purple so dark they are almost black. “There was another delivery for you at the security desk downstairs.” Amanda immediately rises to take the flowers. She pulls the small envelope that containing the card telling Andy who the flowers are from and passes Andy the small envelope.  
  
Andy carefully tears the card open and reads a gushing, congratulatory note praising her latest column on Page Six, signed by a surprising hand. “ _Irv Ravitz!?_ ” she squeaks under her breath. She casts her eyes frantically around the news room and wonders in what twisted wonderland she's landed. Needing time think, she rises and moves away from the desk where she was sitting. Her eyes land on a women's restroom, and she quickly makes her way there. Alone in the room she locks the door and stares into the mirror. There is only one reason she can think of as to why Irv Ravitz would send a journalist such gushing praise. Her heart starts beating a double-time tattoo, and she finds she is breathing rapidly. She feels as if she may be at the beginning of a full-blown panic attack. She must have written something that hurt Miranda professionally. _I need to know what I've done!_ she thinks frantically to herself. _Think!_ Her mind screams at her. _Think! How can I find out about myself with nobody knowing and not ending up looking like a crazy person?!_  
  
“Okay,” she breathes quietly to the image in the mirror, “Okay,” she breathes again, consciously trying to slow her heart rate. “You've worked for Miranda fricking Priestly. This is just another problem to be solved.” she whispers as she stares at the mirror for five full minutes, her mind turning, devising a plan. _When I was studying journalism in college,_ she thinks, _I learned a great deal about other journalists by reading what they'd written. And I never throw anything I've written away. If I live here, then I have a house or an apartment. Go back to my desk. Grab my laptop. Tell the woman at the next desk, Amanda, that I'm taking the rest of the day off. Go find my place, and figure out just what the hell this me has done!”_ Feeling calmer and more in control, she splashes some cold water on her face and, after drying it with a paper-towel, returns to the journalist's bullpen. She breezes by Amanda's desk and, going behind the desk where she sat earlier, she gathers up her laptop and her purse. She glances to the woman that she now suspects is her assistant. “I'm not feeling well,” she says softly. “I'm going to take the rest of the day off. I'll be at home if you need me.”  
  
Amanda nods. “So should I go ahead and send the copy for tomorrow morning's column to proofreading and then to the editorial board?” she asks.  
  
Andy, her mind on other concerns and not listening closely to her assistant's incoming babble, just nods curtly as she hurries out of the busy newsroom.  
  
In the elevator Andy discovers that her home address is an apartment on the posh upper East side of Manhattan. Stepping out of the elevator into the building's lobby she sees the same young security guard who delivered the roses to her desk coming toward her. “Your town car and driver are waiting out front Ms. Sachs,” he offers helpfully. Andy has seen it before, when she was working for Miranda. A subordinate lackey, trying to curry favor. She bypasses the young man without even looking at him. Passing through the building's revolving doors she spots the elegant town car with a familiar driver standing beside the rear passenger door, waiting to open it for her.  
  
The Devil, dressed in an amazingly tailored, very sexy chauffeur’s uniform smiles wickedly as Andy approaches. She opens the back door of the car holding it for Andy, as Andy quickly slides into the back seat. The Devil closes the car door before taking her place behind the wheel. “Where to, Ms. Sachs?” the Devil asks.  
  
“Take me to my apartment,” Andy demands, immediately booting her computer. It takes a few minutes to figure out what her password is on the protected file where she keeps the columns she has written for Page Six. Looking at the dates on the screen, she realizes that she had been writing for Page Six for about eighteen months. She brings up the oldest article first. “Just what kind of Bizarro world have you dropped me into?” she demands tightly.  
  
“The one you wished for, Andy.” the Devil chuckles. “One where you're a famous journalist,” she says, indicating a huge billboard with her picture staring out at the viewer inquisitively on it. It says, _Andy Sachs KNOWS where you've been and WHAT you've been up to! Read her on Page Six in the POST!_ “You also have a fast-lane lifestyle, and Miranda Priestly has very strong feelings about you personally.”  
  
Andy glances over the first article she ever wrote for the _Post_. It is a blatant and unapologetic attack on Miranda and her view of fashion. It suggests that Miranda is too old and too detached from the public at large to even begin to understand what might be fashionable. Andy, a sick feeling in her stomach, moves on to the second oldest article.  
  
Andy manages to read fifteen articles by the time the car arrives at the address the license in her purse says she lives at. From the information found in each column she has deduced that she obviously has informants close to Miranda on a daily basis. The information she has revealed in each column is definitely insider and apparently she has the inside track on the Fashion Icon's moments and moods. While she also writes on other gossip worthy subjects, each and every article contains at least a small jab directed at Miranda. This Andy is evidently ruthless, cold-blooded, and vicious as far as gossip reporting goes and is particularly focused where the fashion maven is concerned. She apparently leaves no stone unturned when finding ways to belittle the reigning Queen of Fashion.  
  
Andy closes her laptop and grabs her purse as she exits the car. The Devil, still seated behind the wheel, says “Why don't you invite me in?”  
  
“Why would I do that?” Andy asks.  
  
“Because among other people in this reality, you're doing your chauffeur here. And I know that you would find bedding me far more enjoyable than what you're going to find in those columns you've written.”  
  
Andy glares at the Devil. “I have work to do this evening,” she answers, the tone of her voice hostile. “I have to figure out how to fix this mess you've dropped me in the middle of.”  
  
“The mess I dropped you in the middle of?” the Devil asks, looking innocent. “I'm only giving you exactly what you asked for,” she continues, laughing.  
  
Andy finds her way to the apartment that she apparently inhabits in this world. It is everything she could imagine if she was earning a large salary. She spends her evening reading article after article that the "her" of this reality has written. They are witty, focused, pithy, and cruel. It takes most of the night to read the 390 articles that she has written in the last 18 months. The last few columns are flirting with the worst thing Andy can possibly imagine. The Andy of this reality has started to turn her focus from Miranda to her twin thirteen-year-old daughters. Just before dawn she reads the article that she submitted yesterday before leaving work. The one that she unthinkingly and without knowing what it contained allowed her assistant to tender for publication. In it she writes that the Priestly twins attended and participated in a "rainbow" party. At first Andy, in her naivety, is unconcerned, unaware of what such a thing might be, thinking perhaps it has something to do with tolerance and racial equality. In sinking horror she reads of the girl attendees given different colored lipstick on arrival at such a party and the boy attendees leaving with a "rainbow" on their tallywackers. Andy has accused Miranda's beloved daughters of participating in promiscuous oral sex on any number of boys who attended that party. There is not any question in Andy's mind. She has to stop publication of the article because if it ever sees the light of day, Miranda will kill her, plain and simple. There will be no forgiveness, no pardon, no reprieve, and no mercy.  
  
Andy is on her cell phone before even realizing it. It is only a few minutes work to discover that the article which unquestionably spells her doom was printed last evening and is already on newsstands all over the city. There is no possible way that this reality can end happily for Andrea Sachs and Miranda Priestly. Without ever even seeing the woman she loves, Andy hits the speed dial that will take her back to the Devil.  
  
***  
  
Andy finds herself back in the Devil's office before the phone has a chance to ring. The Devil sits smiling behind her desk. “You are a bitch,” Andy asserts quietly.  
  
“Hey, evil, remember?” the Devil offers, her tone playful and her aspect innocent as she places her hand on her chest just below her neck, adding emphasis to her words. “Besides, I gave you _exactly_ what you wished for.”  
  
Andy nods. “I see how the game is played,” she responds tightly, glaring at the beautiful woman on the other side of the desk.  
  
“I told you that nobody gets it right the first few times,” the Devil offers in a conciliatory tone.  
  
“The first few times?” Andy demands. “You said the first time!”  
  
“Did I?” the Devil replies innocently. “I must have misspoken,” she smiles wickedly. “So are you ready to make your second wish?”  
  
Andy nods, “I wish that Miranda loves me! Loves me with the same focus and passion she's always put into her career! I want to be the single most important thing in her life!”  
  
“It will be just as you wish it,” the Devil chuckles and makes the same rolling gesture with hand and wrist.  
  
***  
  
Andy finds herself in a huge comfortable bed in a beautiful bedroom. Floor to ceiling windows overlook a patio decorated with beautiful tropical flowers, and beyond she can see the surf rolling in on a pink sand beach. She is dressed in a lightweight gauze shift that is perfect for the humid warmth in the room. It hugs her body in all the right places and is a singularly sensual garment. Her stomach growls, letting her know that she's hungry. Glancing around the room, she spies a table with a covered tray on it. Beside the tray is a thermos carafe, which she suspects contains hot coffee. She rises from the bed, and, while placing her feet on the floor, she suddenly notices an unfamiliar weight on her right ankle. She looks down and is surprised to find an ornate iron anklet locked around the limb. Attached to the anklet is a length of chain. Following the chain she discovers that the other end of it is affixed to a shackle bolted directly into the floor. “This is _so_ not good.” she says quietly to the empty room.  
  
A few minutes later finds her experimenting with where the chain on her leg will allow her to reach inside her suddenly small world. She has a luxurious bathroom that is accessible, and she can even walk out onto the magnificent patio overlooking the ocean. From that vantage point she can see the beautiful house that she is apparently being held prisoner in. She intuits that the house sits on a small island. She can make out the shapes of other islands on the horizon. Having gone to the Bahamas for spring break during her junior year of college, the pink sand suggests to her that the island is likely one of the hundreds of small ones scattered between the coasts of Florida and Cuba. She doesn't see anyone else on the beautiful beach below, so she suspects that this particular island is not a tourist spot.  
  
She turns back toward the French doors that lead back into the place of her confinement. She finds Miranda standing at the doorway, looking at her. Andy is immediately aware of the fire in Miranda's eyes. The naked hunger. Andy moves to where Miranda stands. “Why am I chained up?” she demands of the white-haired woman.  
  
“You know perfectly well why, Andrea,” Miranda answers evenly in that ever-so-quiet tone that forces people to listen to what she is saying. “You tried to leave me in Paris. I simply can't _have_ that. You can't leave me. I _won't_ allow it.”  
  
Andy looks at her captor disbelievingly. “Miranda, you can't just kidnap me I'll be missed!”  
  
Miranda smiles. “Nonsense Andrea,” she answers. “You yourself were complaining to Nigel that your personal life had gone up in smoke. Your boyfriend left you, your friends sided with him and deserted you. Your family abandoned you when you wouldn't quit your job at _Runway_. Then you suddenly quit your job in Paris and walked out. When the police in Paris and then the ones in New York asked, I simply said that you had been my greatest disappointment and that I had no idea where you might have gone.”  
  
“But how are you going to run _Runway_?!” Andy entreats. “You can't stay here with me all the time, and who can you trust to look after me? You wouldn't just leave me here chained up and alone, would you?!”  
  
“As you know, Irving Ravitz tried to take Runway from me while we were in Paris. When you walked out, I realized that I had to move quickly. Irv would have lost a great deal of face if I had returned to New York still at the helm of the magazine after his attempted coup. He never would have completely recovered from it professionally, so it was simplicity itself to negotiate a favorable retirement from my position as editor-in-chief. Irving was more than willing to meet my demands and arrange an extremely generous golden parachute. The funds allowed me to purchase this island without having to dip into my own reserves at all.”  
  
“YOU RESIGNED FROM _RUNWAY_?!” Andy squeaked. “ _RUNWAY_ IS YOUR LIFE! HOW COULD YOU RESIGN FROM _RUNWAY_?!”  
  
“My career at _Runway_ is insignificant in the greater scheme of things, Andrea.” Miranda answers, her demeanor perfectly calm. “The decision was self-evident when I came to understand what was truly important to me. What I _must_ and _will_ have.” She glances inside the house and then turns back to Andrea. “I know people who are in positions of authority in some very unsavory organizations. No one with any time in the fashion business is unaware of the involvement of certain members of organized crime within the industry. The garment district in New York is rife with them. Arranging your abduction as soon as you returned to New York and having you delivered here in secret was but a matter of a few phone calls and negotiating the cost. They even emptied your apartment of all your possessions. Anyone looking for you will think you left New York without leaving a forwarding address after suffering both personal and professional upheaval. Something that happens often enough in the City That Never Sleeps so that it will raise no real alarm. The police will look for you for a time, but they won't find you.”  
  
Andy looks at her captor incredulously. “What about your girls? You can't hold me here and expose them to the fact that I'm your prisoner!”  
  
Miranda nods. “I'll miss my girls,” she answers, her voice thick with emotion for the first time. “But they are already on their way to a most excellent boarding school in Italy. They will spend Christmas-time with their father and perhaps by next summer you will have become more pliable and have come to understand that your place is at my side as my lover. That your accepting that fact is the best thing for all concerned.”  
  
“You've lost your mind,” Andy whispers to the formidable woman standing across the patio from her.  
  
Miranda laughs for the first time in Andy's recent memory. “I only lost my mind when I saw you walking away from me Andrea,” she answers. “In that moment I came to understand that nothing but having you mattered. I know that this..situation...is new. But I promise that I'll take good care of you. My personal fortune is more than sufficient to keep us both comfortable for the rest our lives, and the drugs should make the transition easier for you.”  
  
“Drugs?!” Andy exclaims, real panic stealing her breath. “You're feeding me drugs?!”  
  
Miranda nods. “The people I enlisted to accomplish your abduction suggested it to me. Pharmacology to make you dependent. I find it quite distasteful, but to achieve one's goals, sometimes distasteful measures are necessary.”  
  
“This is nuts!” Andy asserts. “Think about this, Miranda! You've kidnapped me, you're holding me against my will, chained to a bed! And you're feeding me drugs so I'll be forced to stay with you?!” She shakes her head violently, as if she can deny the insanity of this situation and make it go away.  
  
“I can't lose you, Andrea,” Miranda says softly. “I know that I am difficult, bordering on impossible and I'm also aware that I am completely unlovable. My personal relationships have always failed in the past. My three divorces, the lack of any kind of friends, and no real relationship with my two daughters is concrete proof of this. Yet I have admitted to myself that I cannot live without you. So I find myself driven to extreme measures. You are here, with me, and here you will stay.” Miranda stares at Andy, who is standing on the tropical patio. Her eyes blaze. “If I can't have you, Andrea, no one will. I'll kill us both before I'll let you go.” Miranda glances away from Andy and looks out to the beautiful horizon. “In time you'll come to accept what I have to offer you. You won't have a choice.”  
  
Andy falls silent, realizing that, for the moment, there is nothing more to be said and nothing she can do. She spends the rest of the day in a surreal sort of haze with her legs folded under her on the bed, watching. Miranda sits close by reading and occasionally commenting on things that catch her interest.  
  
In the late afternoon, as the sun reddens the horizon, Andy feels the first pangs of discomfort. She is chilled, but she is also sweating. She trembles. The word "withdrawal" plays across her mind. Miranda is there, a syringe in her hand. Andy knows now that she must find the smart phone the Devil gave her. It's time to call off the madness of this wish and try again. Needing Miranda to trust her so that she'll have enough freedom to search the room for the phone, she takes the offered comfort without complaint and allows Miranda to inject her.  
  
The world goes fuzzy and later, when she wakes in the darkness of night, Andy finds herself lying beside a softly snoring Miranda. She rises carefully from the bed, making sure not to disturb her captor. It takes her only a few moments to find the phone. It has power but there is no signal. Andy silently prays that she hasn't condemned herself to the life of Miranda's personal sex slave and plaything with her thoughtless wish. She dials the speed dial for the Devil.  
  
***  
  
Again Andy finds herself in the Devil's company. The Devil is dressed in the uniform of a large fast food restaurant and is standing behind a counter gleefully mixing up contents of already bagged orders. She glanced up and smiled as Andy arrives. “I take it, it didn't go so well?” she says, her tone amused.  
  
“You know that it didn't go well,” Andy said tightly.  
  
The Devil chuckles lightly. “I must admit that I saw some holes in your wish when you made it.”  
  
“That's what you do, isn't it? You tell people you can give them what they want, and then you twist their words! It's not fair!”  
  
“Fair? Who do you think you're talking to? I don't recall anybody ever accusing me of being fair before! I think I'm insulted!” The Devil replies. Andy sighs and sits down heavily at one of the booths near the counter. A moment later the Devil sits down across from her and pushes a Styrofoam cup full of bad fast food coffee across to her. “I think it's you that's not being fair,” the beautiful Hellion offers. “All I ever promise to do is give those who make the deal whatever they ask for. I'm not responsible for what they want or how they phrase what they ask for.”  
  
Andy grits her teeth. “Okay," she grates. “Let's try again.”  
  
“If you'd like a piece of advice, keep it simple,” Andy's companion offers, eyes twinkling mischief.  
  
Andy nods. “Okay, good advice. Simple,” she muses for a long moment. “Something to get me close to Miranda and have her interested in me.”  
  
“Are you thinking what I'm thinking?” The Devil asks excitedly.  
  
“Oh I hope so!” Andy gushes. “I want to be a famous model! Someone Miranda has a huge crush on!”  
  
“I really think you're onto something here!” The Devil exclaims using the same curious hand and wrist gesture to send her on her way.  
  
***  
  
The flashbulb goes off in her eyes. In the blue haze of the after-flash, Andy glances around. It's a photo shoot. Andy has been present at enough of them to recognize one when she sees one, but almost immediately she begins to notice that things are not quite as they should be. The styles of fashion the crew is wearing are vintage. The photographic equipment is years out of date. The music being played is disco. Her eyes cast around as the photographer calls out for her to move and show them what she has. Paris. She is in Paris. The vista about her is a bridge over the River Seine. She recognizes the picturesque Pont Alexandre III. She allows her body to flow with the music that is blaring out from an old-fashioned, portable stereo record player. The photographer continues to snap pictures as the crew adjusts the light diffusers and goes about the myriad tasks associated with getting the perfect picture. As Andy turns, she sees her. It is almost too much to believe, but there stands a much younger Miranda Priestly looking up worshipfully at her as she allows the camera to make love to her. Soon the photographer calls a halt, saying he needs to reload film into the cameras.  
  
Andy steps down from the makeshift stage under one of the elaborate streetlights on the bridge that is being used as a backdrop for the couture she is wearing. A feeling of power surges through her. Here she is, obviously a famous model, in Paris during what is evidently the beginnings of Miranda's career at _French Runway_. Doing some quick math in her head, Andy figures that would make the year somewhere in the early to mid-eighties. This completely alters the playing field. Miranda is a peon intern at the French fashion magazine just learning the ropes, while Andy is now evidently a famous model as the Devil promised. And Andy knows from all the _Runway_ photo shoots that she has assisted at that the crews and magazine staff at these things are usually under strict instructions to keep the diva-models happy at all costs. Putting on a seductive smile, Andy advances past the stylists and makeup technicians rushing toward her, intent on fixing her hair and makeup in the space between shots. Another woman is speaking to Andy, waving what is obviously the next piece of couture that she is to change into for the next set of photos. Like one of the graceful and deadly predatory big cats of the jungle, she approaches the young Miranda. Looking at her, Andy realizes that the girl before her is likely no more than twenty, if that. Andy remembers hearing that Miranda started her time at _French Runway_ as a lowly assistant to an assistant-editor at seventeen years of age and worked her way up from the very bottom rungs of fashion publishing. Andy takes a savage satisfaction that, for once, she is the power and Miranda is the one looking at her with a heady mixture of admiration and apprehension. She can see the beautiful young woman's awe and feel her desire as Miranda moves in a way to figuratively offer her throat to the famous model.  
  
“Miss Carangi,” Miranda whispers reverently.  
  
“Don't call her that!” one of the stylists working on Andy's hair snaps at Miranda, who swallows and turns pale. “She goes by Gia!” the stylist exclaims. “She hates being called by her last name!”  
  
All the air suddenly leaves Andy's lungs. “Gia,” she whispers to herself. “Gia Carangi." Even Andy, who before her time at _Runway_ had no interest in fashion or those associated with it, knows Gia's story. She'd made a point of seeing the movie starring Angelina Jolie playing the famous model after noticing that the largest framed piece of art in Miranda's office was a blow-up of a Cosmo cover featuring the model. Gia was the inventor of “heroin chic,” her life a cautionary tale of a drug-addicted, young woman in a doomed, downward spiral, forgotten by fashion and dead from AIDS by the age of twenty-six. Andy brushes at the insides of her arms and feels the small, hard scars of needle tracks hidden under concealing makeup. Miranda is so close, so in awe. It would be so easy to convince the young girl to come back to the dressing room or even better to her hotel room and there seduce her. She could have this Miranda. Make a life with her. But would the Devil let what Andy knew as history change? Or would she, as Gia, be both forgotten and dead in a few short years? Andy wasn't taking any bets; she knew that the Devil had gotten the best of her again. She looked at the beautiful, young Miranda. “Be a love and get me my purse would you?” She asks.  
  
Miranda is quick to jump to the task. As the photographer readies his camera and the dresser moves to hurry the famous model into the dressing trailer, Andy catches a woman a few years older than Miranda grabbing a purse away from her and dressing her down. The woman berating Miranda is a _Runway_ clacker if Andy has ever seen one. A low-level functionary of _French Runway_ taking out her own impotence and frustration engendered by the hierarchical structure of the fashion industry on a "safe" and "powerless" target. Andy can remember all too well the times Emily did the same to her in her early days in Miranda's world. When the clacker starts threatening Miranda's internship with the magazine, Andy is done minding her own business. “Hey!” she yells angrily, advancing on the scene of verbal castigation. “What do you think you're doing!?” she challenges the clacker, getting right up in the woman's face. “Don't you know who this is?” she demands, gesturing to Miranda.  
  
The clacker looks contemptuously at Miranda and then back to Andy. “She is a worthless intern with a questionable sense of fashion and is incapable of even a task as simple as fetching coffee.” The woman answers haughtily in accented English.  
  
Andy bites down on the inside of her mouth. She remembers who she is supposed to be. She looks at a trembling young Miranda and she lets the part of herself that has always wanted to play the diva run free inside her. “I want to talk to whoever is in charge of this FUCKING CIRCUS!” she yells to no one in particular. “NOW!”  
  
It is but a moment before an older woman presents herself. “I am Fabienne Morrill, Gia,” the woman offers, “I am editor-in-chief of _French Runway_. We are so very happy to have you for this shoot,” Her tone is conciliatory, and her delivery tells Andy that this woman wants her placated. “What can I do for you?” the woman asks.  
  
Something in Andy's memory clicks. Something from Miranda's calendar. Flowers sent to a grave in Paris. Emily said that it was done on a specific day each year, and it was the one time that freesias were acceptable in an arrangement because Fabienne, Miranda's great mentor from French Runway, so loved them. Andy smiles evilly. “This ignorant woman,” she says, gesturing grandly at the clacker, “has the gall to tell me that the greatest asset you have on this shoot is a worthless intern!” She motions to a now-terrified Miranda. “Fabienne Morrill meet Miranda Priestly.” Andy immediately refocuses on the clacker. “Her sense of fashion is not questionable, and if you're smart, you will give her more responsibility immediately and do all you can to see to it that she gets the best education your magazine can give, because I guarantee you that in a few years, she's going to be running the whole damn industry.”  
  
The clacker scoffs, but Fabienne Morrill looks deeply into Andy's eyes. “You believe this,” the woman says, her tone indicating that because Andy believes it, she is willing to give Miranda the benefit of the doubt.  
  
Andy looks coldly at the clacker. A woman she has now taken an intense dislike to. “I'll tell you another thing about Miranda,” she says softly, using Miranda's trick of speaking so quietly that it forces people to listen to what she has to say. “She does not suffer fools gladly, and she neither forgets nor forgives. Find yourself another line of work, honey.” she patronizes. "You're not smart enough to get promoted fast enough to stay ahead of her. That means that before too long _she's_ going to be _your_ boss.”  
  
The clacker huffs and turns, stomping away. Fabienne, however, looks at Miranda speculatively. “As of tomorrow morning, report to my office rather than to editorial, Miranda. If the great Gia believes so in your abilities then I am willing to see to it that you get every chance to rise to the heights she seems so convinced that you are capable of.” With that, Fabienne Morrill, editor-in-chief of _French Runway_ , turns and walks away.  
  
There is silence for a long moment between the two remaining women. Miranda is the first to break it. “Thank you. Roesia was about to fire me,” she says quietly. “I don't know why you helped me, or where you came up with those crazy ideas about what I can do. But I'm really grateful for what you did.”  
  
Andy turns on the younger Miranda. “Every word I said is gospel truth,” she said tightly. “You'll be everything I said and more.”  
  
Miranda looks at her champion. “I've lived here in Paris for almost a year,” she offers. “But I'm still exploring the city. Maybe we could do some of that together. Maybe get a cup of coffee, even a glass of wine. ..” she says, looking down bashfully.  
  
Andy's heart breaks a little. Here she is with the perfect opening, and yet she knows in her soul that she has to do what is right. “That wouldn't be a good idea, kid,” she says, hoping she is coming across as cold and unfeeling. “Fabienne just opened the door for you,” she nods to where the older woman is talking with people about the shoot. “You've got the whole world before you. You should be focusing on your future.”  
  
Miranda's eyes come up, and Andy feels herself melt. Want surges through her, and she can feel the desire emanating from the young woman before her. “You could be my future,” Miranda says softly as she licks her lips. “I could follow where you lead, ” she whispers.  
  
Andy picks up the purse and rummages around inside it until she finds the cell phone, something these people of the early-ninteen-eighties won't even recognize. She sighs. “You don't want to follow my lead, kid,” she states flatly as she dials the Devil's number. “I don't have a future.”

***

Extremely agitated, Andy again finds herself in the Devil's office and witnesses the Devil engaged in berating two figures standing before her desk. “And what do I have to work with?” she demands of the two figures. “Sloth, you're just lazy, and Greed? It's the House of Representatives I sent you to work on! It's not a stretch that you should be able to deliver. There are two hundred and thirty-five of them, and you only managed to get three-quarters? Both of you make me sick! Get out of my sight.”  
  
The two deadly sins hang their heads in shame and leave the office. Andy glares at the figure behind the desk. “I thought that one was going well,” the Devil says lightly. “You could have closed the deal in a heartbeat. So why did you call it off?” she asks curiously.  
  
“Because the person you turned me into died soon after that little scene. And not very pleasantly, I might add!” Andy rages.  
  
The Devil smiles mockingly. “You know so little about fashion, and yet you know about Gia?” She asks.  
  
“Saw the movie,” Andy snaps.  
  
The Devil laughs. “So, your next wish?”  
  
“No, no, no,” Andy replies. “You're not rushing me this time. This time I'm going to think it through before I let my big mouth get me into trouble.”  
  
The Devil shrugs. “What you need to know is how Miranda thinks. What it is she wants."  
  
“What she thinks?!' Andy exclaims angrily. “I just wish that Miranda's and my roles were reversed for a day so she'd understand just what it is to be her poor, suffering assistant,” Andy rages without thinking.  
  
“So be it!” the Devil cackles.  
  
“No, wait! That wasn't a wish!” Andy screams.  
  
“But you said....” the Devil responds, smirking as she makes that motion again with her hand.  
  
“YOU ARE A MOTHER-FUCKING BITCH!” Andy screams out as the world shifts around her.  
  
***  
  
She is sitting in the boardroom of Elias-Clarke Publishing. The board of directors is present as is Irv Ravitz, CEO of _Runway_. She also recognizes a number of faces from the corporate legal department. Irv is pacing like a caged lion, and the board members look grim. “You know better than this, Andrea!” Irv rants. “Why couldn't it have been your first assistant?” he demands. “For God's sake, everybody in the whole damn building knows that Emily would happily get on her knees and do you under your desk during the middle of a run-through if you asked her to. But no! You had to go after your new second assistant, Miranda Priestly. She was smart enough to record your double entendres, sexual innuendos and come-ons, and now she's hired a first-rate lawyer! She's suing _Runway_ and by extension Elias-Clarke for sexual harassment! They're demanding fifteen million dollars! Legal says our case is a dead-bang loser! They are suggesting we settle!”  
  
Andy, aware that once again thoughtless words landed her in an untenable reality, reaches into her purse for her cell phone. Deciding that this moment will never come again, she consciously chooses to allow herself to channel Miranda for a few brief moments. “Irving,” she says in her best condescending Mirandese, allowing her intense dislike for the man that so regularly causes Miranda discomfort to color both her tone and delivery. “Comparing Emily to Miranda is like comparing a children's toy fiddle to a Stradivarius violin. They simply aren't in the same league,” she deadpans as she rises from her chair and stalks with cold and predatory grace toward the door to the hallway and the bank of elevators beyond.  
  
“Andrea, we're not done here, damn it!” Irv calls after her.  
  
“Bore someone else with your trifles, Irving,” she answers coldly, pressing the button for the elevator. “I have an issue of _Runway_ to get out.” Entering the elevator, she closes her eyes and dials the number she now has memorized. For a moment she thinks that it might be fun to take the opportunity to go and terrorize Emily, but she has more important things to do.  
  
***  
  
The Devil sits behind a cubical desk in the offices of one of the major broadcast television networks. Her fingers move rapidly over the keyboard and the numeric content of cells, contained on a spreadsheet that is displayed on the monitor, switch positions. Those shows which had rated strongly with test audiences now have the lowest ratings and those that tested poorly are virtually guaranteed for renewal. The phone rings and she answers. “Yes Mr. Sheen, It's all arranged. Your new comedy vehicle is to be renewed for another season. Say hello to your wives for me.” She hangs up the phone, grinning.  
  
Andy moves up behind the gloating woman. “I don't even have the words,” she says, open hostility dripping icily from each word.  
  
The Devil turns to her and gives Andy sad puppy-dog eyes. Tears start to leak from her eyes. “Do you think it's easy doing what I do? I'm stuck in this dead-end job for eternity, unfairly hated since the beginning of time! I work hard. I try! I really try to be liked! I'm not perfect, you know?!” she sobs. “Not like her,” she continues, glancing at the sky. “I just want you to like me. Don't give up on me, Andy! I'm not giving up on you!”  
  
Andy looks at her companion archly. “You're kidding me, right?” she demands.“I'm not some idiot guy with my brains swinging between my legs.” She shakes her head. “Although I must say you play the helpless bimbo offering the potential for a sexual encounter pretty well.”  
  
The Devil's tears stop immediately, and she returns Andy's gaze with a small, amused smirk. She takes a step forward and places a hand suggestively on Andy's arm. “What about a potential encounter with you? You're into women...” she offers seductively.  
  
“It's more the person with me than the gender,” Andy replies. “And let's get real and stick to the point. I say a wish, and it's your job to find the loophole and screw me over with it.”  
  
The Devil laughs a full-throated laugh. “It's been awhile since I got to play against someone who really understands the game.”  
  
Andy nods her understanding. “I wish,” she says, “that Miranda is happily married to me. I wish we've been married for a while. Say a couple of years. I want her twin daughters to be okay with the marriage. In fact I want them to like that I'm their step-mom! I want Miranda to be Miranda, but I want her to really love me. Deeply, passionately,” Andy chuckles, “even jealously. I want her to have her career and everything, but I want to be an important part of her life!”  
  
The Devil once again raises her hand and makes the spinning gesture that sends Andy on her way. Just as the wishing woman begins to disappear, the Devil remarks, “Just so we're crystal clear, remember that I play by the laws of thermodynamics rules. You can't win, you can't break even, and you can't quit the game!”  
  
***  
  
Andy finds herself in Miranda's townhouse, but what she sees around her as far as décor is concerned is not solely dictated by Miranda's tastes. She can clearly see her hand in the furniture and decorations. She wears a magnificent lounging robe with top-of-the-line La Perla lingerie beneath it. It's mid-evening, and she feels depressed. She notes a nearly empty glass of vodka hanging limply in her hand. She is alone, again. The twins are off on one of their school trips. It is easier when the girls are home; then there is at least something to focus on. Andy castigates herself for her mood and her drinking. _I knew who Miranda was when I married her,_ she argues with herself as she takes another pull from the glass of alcohol, feeling it burn its way down her throat. _I knew that damn magazine would always come first,_ her mind continues to turn. _But tonight I hoped...._ A tear escapes from her eye. _It's our anniversary, damn it!_ she thinks. _Just for tonight she could’ve forgotten that there's another stupid crisis at Runway! She could've been here with me instead of at the office!_ She finishes off the vodka in her glass and immediately goes to the bar to pour another. She is aware that this isn't her first glass. In fact she is feeling the effects of drinking the better part of the bottle. This is not an unusual occurrence. With their very public same-sex nuptials, Irv Ravitz found another lever to use against Miranda at Elias-Clarke. Miranda has had to dedicate even more time and effort to prevent losing her position as editor-in-chief. Miranda tries to be apologetic, tries to give Andy what time she can, but Miranda is Miranda, and _Runway_ is her creation. It is her child, and she cannot surrender it to the likes of Irv Ravitz. This untenable situation leaves Andy to her own devices far too much of the time.  
  
Andy has found two ways to cope with the depression and the anger she feels each and every day. The first is drinking heavily. The second has just entered the house through the front door. Emily has arrived to deliver the Book. Andy licks her lips and hurries toward the foyer. As she goes, she unties the lounging robe she wears and lets the sheer "fuck me" set of lacy bra, panties, garter belt, and silk stockings show. Emily stands against the front door, hungrily waiting for her to come. Their coupling is violent each time it happens. The sex act angry. The truth is that they don't even really like each other, but both have grudges against Miranda and somehow together they can, for a brief moment, find a numbing satisfaction before self-loathing and guilt kick in.  
  
Emily's lips are on her, and the English woman's hands wantonly kneed Andy's flesh through the La Perla bra she wears. Andy's hands urgently work to strip Emily out of her dress. She wants Emily naked tonight, right here in the foyer. Right here where Miranda will walk through as soon as she returns home. They are frenzied in their passions, desperate to touch each other, to taste each other, to feel something other than the consuming need both share to please Miranda at any cost.  
  
Andy is on her knees, her face buried between Emily's thighs when she hears the door open. She tries to pull back, but Emily is close to her release and has both hands firmly wrapped in her long brunette hair, firmly holding Andy's face against her sex. It is then that Andy hears the gunshot. Emily slumps and over the English woman's dying, naked body Andy sees Miranda, her face a mask of rage and pain as she brings the pistol up and aims it at Andy. Andy dives for the robe she was wearing earlier. The cell phone is in its pocket. She hears the gun bark again, and she feels a chip of marble, broken free from the floor of the foyer by the missed shot, cut her leg. She grabs up the phone as Miranda, openly sobbing, steps forward and presses the hot barrel of the gun against her forehead. Just as Andy frantically dials the number to end the wish, she hears Miranda whisper, “I love you, Andrea, and you've betrayed me! If I can't have you, than nobody can!” just as the gun sounds again.  
  
***  
  
It takes Andy a seemingly eternal moment to realize that she's not dead. She tries to slow her wildly beating heart and untangles herself from the near fetal position she finds herself in on a cold stone floor. As she rises, she sees realizes that she is in quite a large room. It is dark, but she's aware that there are bookshelves all about. The room smells of dust and old paper. It has the feel of ostentation and age. _A library,_ Andy surmises. The Devil, wearing a ridiculous headlamp flashlight around her forehead, stands beside a book display lectern. The glass display cover that would normal protect the book on the lectern from the elements sits upside down on a nearby table. Andy notes that the Devil holds a fine paintbrush in one hand and a small jar of paint in the other. “Where are we?” Andy asks by way of greeting.  
  
“The rare book and manuscript room of the Butler Library at Columbia University,” the Devil answers, her tongue protruding between her teeth while she concentrates on carefully dabbing some paint on the open page of the volume in front of her.  
  
Andy moves up beside her, and in the beam of the headlamp she can see a hand-printed, illuminated bound manuscript.  
  
“It's an illuminated book of hours,” the Devil giggles. “The university library just paid a million and a half dollars to obtain it. They're intending to build a whole display and research foundation around it. They actually raised their tuition charges last semester so they could make the purchase,” she continues, her focus on the careful work of the paint brush. “The president of the university thinks this acquisition is going to be his legacy and that he'll be remembered for it. He and the board of directors are going to be remembered as looking pretty silly when it's discovered that it's a fraud.” She again dabs a bit of paint onto the gilding on the page. The result is a smiley face partially hidden among the religious iconography. “And not even a very competent fraud at that!” She turns and looks at Andy. “I suppose that you are rather cross with me...” she offers tentatively.  
  
Andy sighs and shakes her head. “No, not really. It was my fault,” she answers. “I talked about Miranda and the twins loving me, and I even asked that Miranda be jealous. But I didn't say anything about me loving Miranda. I gave you the out, and you, because of your nature, took it.”  
  
The Devil looks at her and smiles. “You still have two more wishes,” she offers excitedly. “Two more chances to get it right! And you're getting better each time you try. But time is running out. So you'd best be quick coming up with your next wish!” She turns back and carefully paints GO PRINCETON! in period-appropriate lettering among the many designs painted on the old paper.  
  
“Time limit! What time limit? You never said anything about any time limit!” Andy babbles in panic.  
  
“And you didn't read your contract before you signed it,” the Devil replies. “Nobody ever reads the contract,” she grins evilly, her eyes sparkling with mischief.  
  
“Damn you,” Andy growls.  
  
“You're a bit late on that score,” the Devil replies.  
  
Andy sighs, “I've been going about this all wrong,” she says. “I've been trying to force Miranda's hand rather than letting nature take its course. All I really need is an in.” She considers the problem for a long moment. “Miranda loves her girls more than anything. If I were to do something really heroic, something that saved the girls from something really terrible, then Miranda might see me for me rather than just as her second assistant. If I could get that kind of chance, then Miranda could fall in love with me.” She nods to herself. “Okay, I wish to do something really heroic that saves the Priestly twins' lives. I want Miranda to fall in love with me for it, and I want to love Miranda in return. I want Miranda to be true to me because of my actions for the rest of her long and healthy life. I don't want this wish to happen twenty or ten or five years from now but right now,” she glares at the Devil defiantly.  
  
“Oh that's a good one, Andy!” The Devil commends. Very thoughtful and very specific!” The beautiful Hellion raises her hand once more and sends Andy on her way.  
  
***  
  
Smoke burns Andy's eyes and chokes her. Fire rages all around her. She's in Miranda's townhouse, and it is engulfed in flames. It's hard to see, but she has an idea of where the front door is. She has Cassidy under one arm, and she's aware that this is her second trip into the burning building. She has already carried Caroline to the relative safety of the street. She can see the flashing red lights of the fire department arriving outside through the windows around the front door. She pushes on, hurrying, knowing that soon the adrenaline that is powering her courage and fortitude for this mad rescue attempt will run out, leaving Andy exhausted and quite a bit the worse for wear. The horrible roaring of the flames is suddenly cut by a loud cracking sound as Andy finally reaches the front door. Glancing up she realizes that the ceiling of the room has cracked across its length and is beginning to fall. With superhuman effort she hurls the frightened child through the portal to a fireman just as the burning ceiling falls and blackness claims her.  
  
She is awake, but she can't open her eyes. She hears machines around her. The beeping of a heart monitor, the rhythmic whoosh of assisted breathing, the quiet drip of IVs. She can hear a voice she does not recognize speaking softly. “Severing of the spine at the C-3 vertebrae resulting in quadriplegia, which in a way is a mercy considering the serious burns she suffered over eighty percent of her body. If her body below her head had neural sensation, the pain she would be in would be unimaginable. She is presently in a coma, and at this point we don't have any way to tell if she will ever regain consciousness. To be brutally honest, Mrs. Priestly, it might be better if she never did.” Andy can hear Miranda's carefully controlled sobs. “She saved them, Emily,” Miranda whispers through tears, somewhere close to Andy's ear. “She went into a burning building to save one of my daughters and then went back in to save the other. The girls would have died in that fire tonight if it hadn't been for Andrea. And with all that gauze covering so many burns, I can't even kiss her on the forehead to say thank you...” Darkness claims Andy again.  
  
Sometime later Andy crawls back up out of the darkness. She is still unable to move, unable to open her eyes. She hears Miranda's quiet voice somewhere close by. Miranda is reading aloud, but it is not poetry, which Andy knows is what Miranda likes to read for her own pleasure, but a rather exciting scene from a pulp mystery, which is what Andy reads when she has the leisure to do so. Andy is able to follow the story a bit, and it's pleasant to hear Miranda's quiet and terribly sexy voice caressing the words. After a time Andy is lost in the darkness again.  
  
Time means nothing. Andy has no way to keep track. She has no way to know if it is day or night. She can't feel the cold or warmth, a breeze or anything else. She is sometimes aware of someone close to her. Sometimes it's Miranda, who apparently comes to read to her. Sometimes she assumes it's nurses doing those things necessary to tend to her damaged body. She slips out of and into the blackness without rhyme or reason. She remembers at one point that she had heard how coma patients might be able to hear and be aware of people visiting them. She briefly wonders if that is what she is experiencing.  
  
At some point the pain comes. It's only her face and head that hurt, but the agony is indescribable. It is Miranda, who apparently recognizing what's happening from a change in her heartbeat as recorded by the monitor, demands that the nurse administer pain killers. Andy is aware of people close to her face before the pain recedes and blackness rushes up to greet her.  
  
Miranda reads. Andy doesn't know how many books, and she never gets the whole story. She is only aware that they are different pulp mysteries because the characters' names change.  
  
Andy is privy to another briefing from what she assumes is a doctor. She knows that Miranda is in the room because she was reading to her before the doctor arrived. The words that stand out are “no improvement,” "muscular degeneration, fusing of joints due to un-excised scar tissue, infections ravaging her systems," and lastly, "poor prognosis for regaining consciousness and poorer chances for any kind of real recovery.” For the first time Andy wants the blackness to take her.  
  
Sometime after hearing her bleak prospects of a future, Andy overhears a quiet conversation between Miranda and Emily. Miranda, while never verbally confessing her love for Andrea, has shown it with her presence and by reading to Andy books she thought silly. The tone of Miranda's voice made it clear to Andy that Miranda is at the end of its rope. There is no hope, no reprieve, and the sorrow in Miranda's voice breaks Andy's heart.  
  
Then she hears Emily. Emily who was Andy's unwanted rival at _Runway_. To Andy's chagrin, Emily speaks of Andy's secret love for Miranda. Not a crush, the British woman assures the woman who owns Andy's heart, but a deep and abiding love. One willing to sacrifice anything to save Miranda pain. One willing to risk all attempting to save Miranda's beloved daughters. Andy Sachs, the hero.  
  
“I think you loved her even before this happened to her," Emily whispers. “But I don't think you could see it then.” They are quiet for a moment before Emily continues. "I know you love her and that you are dedicating your life to her, but she's in a coma,” she says. “She can't support your emotional needs or help you carry the load you bear.” There is the soft sound of movement, the quiet brush of cloth on cloth. “Let me help you, Miranda. I know you don't love me. I know you never will. But I love you, and it's enough. Let me take you home tonight and hold you. Let me make love to you and let you know that this room and the pain and the sorrow in it isn't all that's left for you in the world."  
  
Andy wants to hate Emily in that moment, but she is far too grateful to the Brit for trying to ease Miranda's pain. She allows the darkness to swallow her once more.  
  
Sometime later, but not much later, she believes, when she is fairly certain that she is alone in her room, she comes to a decision. She takes responsibility for condemning both Miranda and herself to this living hell. She focus her will and mentally calls out for the Devil. She does not know how long it takes, but she is exhausted by the time her mental message receives a reply. Andy is suddenly sitting up in bed and aware of her whole body. The massive burn scars horribly disfigure her.  
  
The Devil, dressed as, of all things, some fourteen-year-old boy's fantasy of a sexy candy striper, stands at the end of the bed. “I was wondering when you'd call,” the beautiful Hellion says softly. “You still have one wish, and,” she glances pointedly at her wristwatch, “time is almost up.”  
  
“I want out of this nightmare,” Andy struggles to say.  
  
“I can arrange that. But it's going to cost you your last wish,” the Devil muses.  
  
Andy nods, “And then you own my soul...” she answers softly.  
  
It's the Devil's turn to nod.  
  
“There's a catch, isn't there?” Andy asks, fear crawling around her insides.  
  
“There's always a catch,” the Devil whispers in return. “You're going to want to free yourself from your destroyed body and all the pain you suffer and will continue to suffer. But you're also going to want to free Miranda from the thoughtless wish you made, tying her to loving you for the rest of her miserable and lonely life.”  
  
Andy thinks for a long moment and looks at the Devil. She sighs softly and then, gathering her resolve, she speaks. “I wish,” she says softly, “that Miranda Priestly finds true and abiding happiness for the rest of her long and healthy, natural life span.”  
  
The Devil, eyes surprised, looks at her. “Andy,” she urges, “think about what you are doing. You'll live out your days in that burnt and useless shell. Unable to move, unable to do anything for yourself. Miranda went home with that redhead last night, and they banged each other like a couple of Salvation Army drums! She and that redhead will end up together. That Emily will end up sleeping next to Miranda where you wanted to be. She'll be the one making her breakfast, and easing her day, and making love to her. And you'll be alone. All alone until you go mad! Free yourself. Miranda Priestly is beyond you. Leave her behind. You can have some kind of life. A future. Just wish yourself out of that bed, and be free until your natural span ends.  
  
Andy nods. “Guess I'm just going to hell a little bit sooner than planned,” she whispers. Her voice becomes stronger as she speaks. “Fulfill the contract, and give me my seventh wish! I wish,” she repeats her demand, “that Miranda Priestly finds true and abiding happiness for the rest of her long and healthy, natural life span.”  
  
The Devil nods and sighs. One last time she raises her hand and makes that strange rolling gesture.  
  
***  
  
Andy suddenly finds herself sitting in the cafe where she had first encountered the Devil. For a brief moment she wonders why she is not trapped in the darkness, in her prison of a body. She notes with an air of detachment that there is a half-drunk latte sitting in front of her, and a quick touch to the cup informs her that it has long gone cold. She shakes her head. The day has been simply awful. She walked out on _Runway_. Walked out on Miranda, whom she now realizes she loves more deeply than she thought humanly possible. On top of everything else, she sold her soul to the Devil. It is a heavy price to pay, and she failed to even get close to what her heart desired after using up all seven wishes. A shadow falls across the table. Andy suspects it is the Devil who has come to gloat. She looks up, and words fail her. There stands a grim-looking Miranda.  
  
“I have spent the entire afternoon and a good part of the evening looking for you, Andrea,” she says tightly in that so soft and absolutely terrifying way of hers. "I missed a number of important events!”  
  
Andy stares at the woman before her and cocks her head. “Why?” she asks, surprising herself that she manages to answer at all.  
  
“What?” Miranda replies sharply, impatience flashing through her eyes, and Andy, having become excellent at reading Miranda due to the necessity of doing her job, thinks she notices just a hint of confusion, perhaps a bit of uncertainty.  
  
“Why did you miss important events? Why come looking for me?” Andy dares to ask, after all at this point she feels she has nothing to lose. “You must know I'd have to go back to the hotel to get my stuff at the very least,” she continues. “Can't fly home without my passport. You could have just left somebody there to tell me I had to talk to you before I could go home.” Andy is absolutely amazed at how calm and reasonable she sounds while Miranda stands before her. She should be cringing, terrified, trembling.  
  
It is extremely subtle, but Andy notices that Miranda looks even more disconcerted. “I don't understand you!” the white-haired icon grates, for the first time allowing what Andy perceives as genuine emotion peek through. “We were having a lovely conversation in the car. I told you that I.....Or I was trying to tell you that I...” Miranda pauses, apparently uncertain of what she wants to say. “I felt at that moment that we were so alike.” She purses her lips and turns away. "Now I can of course see that I was wrong."  
  
Andy nods dumbly, unable or unwilling to speak, not trusting her voice. She notes, rather curiously, that Miranda shifts uneasily, something that is very unlike the Miranda Priestly she knows. After gathering herself, Andy responds, “No, we're not alike, Miranda. I'm not as strong as you are. I can't turn off my feelings. Can't...” She suddenly finds Miranda's fingers touching her lips, silencing her.  
  
"Andrea,” Miranda said. “This is difficult enough, so please let me finish. What I said in the car was wrong. What I was trying to say, and doing it very badly, was...that you are the most capable assistant I have ever employed. And as unpalatable as it is to contemplate, I need you to leave _Runway_. If you will give your two weeks' notice and resign your position, I will give you a most excellent reference.”  
  
Andy looks at Miranda as if she's just sprouted another head. “Miranda, I walked out. I left you going into an important show, which you now tell me you didn't attend. You've fired people for your coffee not being hot enough. I don't think that you'll have a problem with my remaining at _Runway_ anymore.”  
  
Miranda shakes her head and sits down stiffly in the chair across from Andy. “Unacceptable,” she replies sharply, glaring at the young brunette across from her. “If you do not work your two weeks' notice, I'll have no time or way to convince you that I am in earnest.”  
  
“In earnest?” Andy asks, obviously confused with the bizarre twists and turns of this conversation. “In earnest about what?”  
  
Miranda sighs heavily. "Andrea, during your wandering of Paris did you by chance fall down and smack your pretty little head?” Miranda demands. “I know that you are an intelligent young woman. I know that you aware of this attraction between us. I have seen how you watch me when you think I'm not looking, and I am guilty of doing the same when I think you are otherwise occupied. I know that you have noticed that I treat you differently than I do other employees. What I want to show you is that I am in earnest about the future. Our future. About us,” she answers, looking anywhere but at Andrea.  
  
Andy blinks. “Us?” she squeaks.  
  
“I understand that you are angry about what I did to Nigel. Believe me that I understand the impulse to lash out,” Miranda offers, her tone exasperated. “Certainly, I have done it many times myself. But what you must understand is that what I did, distasteful as it was, was necessary. Had I not moved to have Jacqueline take the position at James Holt's company, Irv might have had garnered enough leverage to depose me. I know that Nigel is your friend. I hope that he is still mine as well, and I swear that I will find a way to repay him and do right by him. I know I'm thought of as difficult and perhaps even heartless and unlovable. I am difficult because I demand the very best of all my employees. In my own defense I think you'll grant that I demand as much if not more of myself as I do of others. As for being heartless,” Miranda glances down at the table, for the first time, vulnerability clearly communicating itself to Andy. “Perhaps, before you came into my life that might have been true. But no longer. I know you can't continue to work for me. You have become far too great a distraction while I am at the office. This...” she made a rolling gesture with her hand, encompassing the two of them, “obsession of mine has been getting worse and worse ever since you wore those damn Chanel boots. It is becoming increasingly difficult to concentrate when you are in the outer office. I constantly find reasons to call you into my office, assigning you little jobs that don't really need to be done. At night, at home, I listen for you to come with the Book, watching you from the top of the stairs in the darkness. Things cannot continue this way. But if you were to find another job, one in your field, perhaps we could come to some kind of accommodation.”  
  
“You want me to quit _Runway_ so we can have an affair?” Andy blurts out, immediately cursing her lack of forethought and realizing it was what got her into trouble with more than one of her wishes.  
  
Miranda looks affronted. “Nothing so tawdry, Andrea," she says tightly. "More that I might ask you on a date once you are no longer my employee. Just coffee or something. From there perhaps dinner...” She glances up at her companion, and Andy can read the fear of rejection on Miranda's face. “I want to court you, Andrea," the older woman whispers, “if you will allow it. I would like to see if we might be able to build a future together.”  
  
Andy closes her eyes and breathes deeply. Opening them again she confirms that Miranda has not disappeared. “Oh, yes, please, Miranda. I'd like that very much!”  
  
***  
  
Eleven days have passed, and Andy's time at Runway is drawing to a close. She and Miranda finished out fashion week, Miranda explaining away their afternoon and evening absence by claiming a bout of food poisoning that Andy nursed her through. There were no recriminations from Miranda about her walking out, and a duplicate cell phone appeared in her hotel room, complete with all the phone numbers that had been programmed into the old one. Things around Miranda were, however different. Miranda now talked to her, asked her opinion, arguing points with the intention of convincing Andy of her point of view. And most amazingly, allowed her own ideas to be swayed on occasion.  
  
On the flight home Miranda expressed the need for discretion about their budding relationship at least until her worthless, soon-to-be ex-husband and she file the proper paperwork for the separation and impending divorce. They are not dating, yet. Miranda was firm that she wouldn't date someone who worked for her. Miranda did, however, suddenly require Andy's presence at the townhouse for work-related projects in the evenings. In these after-hours encounters Andy would have dinner with Miranda and the twins and then the quartet would retire to Miranda's office, Andy and Miranda doing work for _Runway_ and the twins doing homework. After the girl's bedtime Miranda and Andy took some quiet, reflective time to share a glass of wine and talk about their day. Andy had thought she was head-over-heels in love with Miranda before seeing this side of the woman. Now she knows for a fact that she is truly and completely lost. What keeps her going now is that Miranda seems just as gone on her as she is on Miranda.  
  
They haven't made love yet, haven't done more than exchange chaste kisses hello and good night. They occasionally hold hands in the elevator or in the back of the town car. That and the odd hug is the extent of their physical contact. Andy just knows that when the time comes for them to make love, it is going to be earth-shattering.  
  
On her way back from a Starbucks run Andy hurries into the lobby of Elias-Clarke and sees one of the elevator doors just starting to close. The traffic to get across the street was congested, and the traffic light was against her, so she is already concerned about the quickly cooling temperature of Miranda's coffee. “Hold that elevator, please!" She sings out as she rushes to board the car. Surprisingly, she is one of two passengers on the car when she enters it . She swallows fear softly as she is once again eye to eye with the beautiful incarnation of the Devil.  
  
“Hello, Andy,” the Devil offers, smiling her wicked smile. “How's tricks?”  
  
Andy glares. “You tell me. Is this where you suddenly put me back into that broken body? Just another little torment to help drive me to despair?”  
  
The Hellion huffs, exasperated. “No one ever reads their contract,” she laments. “Article two-hundred forty-seven, paragraph five, subsection D, Selfless Acts of Redemption.” The Devil smirks at her surprised companion. “You see, when you put Miranda's happiness before your own interests and made the last wish that wouldn't benefit you in any way you could foresee, well, that was a deal breaker. I had to give Miranda the wish, and your soul went into turnaround. You're free and clear...Unless you want to have another go at seven more wishes....”  
  
“No,” Andy stammers. “Thanks all the same, but if this is real and what's really happening, I think I'll just be satisfied with what I've got.”  
  
The Devil nods sagely.  
  
“I still don't get it,” Andy complains. “I tried with six wishes to get what I wanted, and then with the seventh I wasn't even thinking about myself, yet here I end up with exactly what I wanted."  
  
The Devil nods. “You asked for Miranda to be happy for the rest of her long, natural lifespan. Apparently you are the catalyst that makes such happiness possible.” The Devil grins evilly. “You know, there is a powerful old Gypsy curse that says be careful what you wish for, you might get it. I hope you're ready for what you've done, She'd going to outlive you by about twenty minutes, and you're going to live to a ripe old age. You should know that she's only going to grow more crotchety the older she gets."  
  
Andy chuckles. “I can live with that. So,” she asks, “If you're not here to carry me off to hell, why are you here?”  
  
The Devil watches the numbers climb on the elevator. “Oh, I have an appointment with Emily,” she offers casually.  
  
“Okay, now I'm scared,” Andy replies, only half-joking. “Trolling for souls again?” she asks.  
  
“Job interview," the Devil answers. “Seems Miranda is in need of a new second assistant.”  
  
“You're after my job?” Andy starts.  
  
“Hey, you've resigned,” The Devil replies, “By the way, you're going to get a call back from the _Mirror_ today. You'll want to make that follow-up interview a priority. As far as me working here, can you think of a better position for me to be in where I can find frightened, desperate, shallow, avaricious, vain, lustful individuals? It's like a discount, all-you-can-eat smorgasbord with better clothes!” The Devil grins. "Besides, I can multi-task like nobody's business, I speak every spoken tongue in the world fluently, and I type a hundred and fifty words per minute with no errors.”  
  
Andy nods and smiles, holding her tongue. The proposed threat of the Devil working at _Runway_ is a non-starter. No way will Emily hire somebody who might outshine her. The Devil's resume will find its way into the shredder long before it ever gets anywhere near Miranda's desk.  
  
Besides, _Runway_ already has its Devil.  
  
 _fini_


End file.
